


confidence men

by nighimpossible



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Con Artists, Dubious Morality, Library Sex, M/M, Ulterior Motives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-15 22:16:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13622628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nighimpossible/pseuds/nighimpossible
Summary: Provoke. Consume.His patron’s wish is Fjord’s command.





	confidence men

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for episode 5. This interpretation of the Hexblade pact is simply a guess at what Matt has in store for Travis and will likely be jossed soon enough. 
> 
> Thank you to Kate for the magnificent beta. She made this fic worth your time. WOWIE.

 

 

 

The shipwreck changed Fjord more than he realized. Maybe that’s a good thing: the person he was before—ruthless, mercenary, out to steal your livelihood on the high seas—was perhaps not worth saving. Not by any measure of a man, and certainly not by any value in civilized society. And then the storm came, and _Melora’s Mercy_ had gone down. Fjord had tried to swim to a distant shore on the horizon, but something had come off the mast and knocked him unconscious. It should have been his death.

 

It wasn’t. He’d been saved. Fjord had woken up, face down in the sand. Beside him, a sword plunged deep in the ground like a calling card. At the time, he hadn’t known who or what had dragged him to shore. 

 

When his patron had shown its face in his dreams, crawling into his subconscious like a creature from the deep, Fjord had not known how to respond. _Watching, potential, learn, grow, provoke, consume._ The words felt like both instruction and a warning.

 

So Fjord will prove himself worthy. If he was worth saving three months ago, he must be worth something now. 

 

At least, that’s what he tells himself when doubt comes to call.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“The prodigal son returns,” Molly says as Fjord ducks his way into the Gilded Horn Inn to join up with the rest of the group.

 

The party’s arrival in Rexxentrum began with such promise: Molly found them a place to stay for next to nothing and Caleb managed to keep Nott’s disguise in check. They didn’t exactly have full coffers, but fighting the gnoll army had earned them enough gold to live on for the time being. Fjord hadn’t been asked about his sword or his dreams for a few days, which made things far easier—weaving a tapestry of lies and half-truths around his new compatriots was tricky enough without people poking holes in his story. Things were going well. Perhaps too well, in Fjord’s honest opinion. 

 

So when Soltrice Academy doesn’t come close to accepting Fjord, he isn’t surprised. He gets it: he’s not the son of a nobleman, and he’s not the bookish, intellectual type either. But Fjord had been given the mission to learn, and whether that meant gaining information by hook or by crook, Fjord doesn’t really much care. It would just be _easier_ if they thought him some benign force, pursuing knowledge for knowledge’s sake. Fjord managed to convince the board members that an exam would be helpful in assessing his abilities, and though the board had been visibly dubious at this proposal to prove his worth, they had given him a chance. 

 

So: he’ll practice. A lot. He doesn’t want to chance rejection, not when he’s gotten _this close_ , simply because he’s impatient. Blow enough smoke up their asses to impress them, throw in some fancy swordplay, and hopefully call it a done deal.

 

_And if you fail, you simply take what we need._

 

Fjord rolls his shoulders back easily, grabbing the mug of ale Jester hands him. 

 

In the meantime, the board _did_ give him access to the library, and that’s a courtesy Fjord hadn’t expected. This whole dog and pony show may be unnecessary if Fjord can find the right book.

 

“Did they give you a library card of some kind?” Molly asks curiously. Fjord shrugs, pulling out the pendant Keeper Verena had gifted him earlier.

 

“Suppose this is what’s used to grant me access.” He holds out the shiny, metallic necklace for the group to inspect. Nott only tries to steal it from his hand once, and Fjord counts that as progress.

 

“That seems replicable,” Molly sniffs, looking down his nose at the pendant. Fjord silently agrees, though that’s not something he’s going to encourage. _If_ he’s outright rejected from Soltrice, he’ll copy the pendant. Fjord has been commanded to learn, and learn he shall. But that duplication will happen on his terms, not Molly’s.

 

“Not something I would chance,” Fjord says blithely. His lets a hint of the iron will inside his heart bleed into the words as a warning. _Don’t mess with me_.

 

“ _With time_ ,” Molly adds begrudgingly, backing off. “Alright, I won’t. But know that I could.” He pauses, and Fjord relaxes a little. “If you were interested.”

 

“I know that you are very excited about your new school, Fjord,” Jester points out, “but isn’t it, like, _super_ expensive?” She smiles brightly at him. Perhaps Jester thinks that he has some kind of school-related slush fund. He doesn’t, and Fjord isn’t sure if it’s better for her to think him rich or poor. Fjord doesn’t have any kind of savings beyond their recent earnings.

 

“Aye, it is expensive,” he says in his plain, put-upon drawl. Jester is the only one to have heard his true accent, but luckily she’s dim enough to let it pass for now. “Maybe they’ll grant me some kind of scholarship if I do real well on the exam.”

 

“ _Scholarship_ ,” Jester chokes out, a little like the word hurts her. She’s had a bit of a sheltered life, and Fjord doesn’t begrudge her that. “You had better pay attention when I invoke duplicity next time. That is a very good trick you totally cannot do. Maybe if you look when I do it, like, _really_ , really hard, you can get it. Then you will get into the Academy for sure.” 

 

Jester smiles sweetly at him, twirling her skirts a little. Fjord’s chest tightens at her earnest grin. She believes he just wants to go to school—they all do. Lying to other people had never been this hard before. During his years at sea, Fjord had kept to himself as much as possible. It was easier to lie when you kept everyone at a distance.

 

Blackrazor hums in the back of Fjord’s mind. _Soon you’ll leave them behind. They will be a memory easily shed._

 

Fjord doesn’t exactly find that comforting.

 

It’s been a few weeks since the blade starting communicating in earnest. At first, commands had only come to him in dreams, and they had been simple: _learn, grow, provoke, consume_. But as his powers grew, his bond with both the sword and his patron strengthened. Fjord can hear Blackrazor even when he has it stowed in its pocket dimension—the blade is ever present, insistent, distracting.

 

“I’ll be sure to do that,” Fjord nods politely at her. He won’t, but Jester beams in return. It’s easy to placate her.

 

“Caleb has learned a _lot_ of magic. Have you learned lots of tricks, too?” Nott asks him excitedly. Her words are slightly muffled behind the porcelain mask. “Besides the sword stuff. Something very cool and powerful will impress them, surely.”

 

“Well, my magic’s not like Caleb’s,” Fjord starts, and he glances briefly across the table to find Caleb staring at the pendant longingly. _Good_. Let Caleb come to him. Fjord thumbs the necklace between his fingers, letting it gleam in the light. He dangles it between his fingertips like a lure. “I didn’t learn my magic. It was given.” Given in exchange for obedience, he doesn’t say. “So I didn’t learn anything special. I just have to hope that what I am is good enough.”

 

Nott lets out a hissing whistle through her jagged teeth. “But they didn’t accept you _today,_ what about you is going to change—” Caleb interrupts by tugging Nott backwards, and Fjord knows that he’s taken the bait.

 

“When is the exam?” Caleb asks, pointedly ignoring the protestations of Nott behind him.

 

“A week,” Fjord replies. His words are plain and without suggestion. He has to reel Caleb in slowly.

 

“That’s a lot of time to practice,” Caleb says, and he’s using the same voice he uses to calm Nott down. Fjord bristles a little under the obvious handling. He doesn’t need Caleb to patronize him, but he does need Caleb to think that he’s making his own decisions. “I can help you.”

 

Truth be told, there might be a thing or two Caleb could teach him before the big day. But more importantly, Caleb is a speed reader. It’s possible that, given the right direction, Caleb could find exactly what Fjord needs.

 

“They only gave me one of these,” Fjord says, gesturing to the pendant. Caleb’s expression fixes, like he’s trying to prevent a frown. Fjord knows that he has him now. It’s an easy con, because dangling a library in front of Caleb is a perfect lure. “But maybe we can ask nicely if they’ll let you in as my guest. Keeper Verena said they have over a hundred thousand books here in Rexxentrum. Even more in their libraries abroad.”

 

He’s laying it on thick, but a warm expression falls over Caleb’s face nonetheless. Eyes bright, Caleb nods. “That would be—that would be amazing. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen that many books.”

 

Fjord suddenly wants to probe at Caleb’s guarded response, but Nott tugs Caleb away to look at the shiny rocks she “found”—fourteen silver and three gold, and Fjord tries not to think where she pocketed them from—before he has the chance. It’s probably best not to wonder why Caleb’s on the run, or where he comes from. Fjord might engender tenderness or sympathy, and those are feelings he simply cannot afford to feel himself. Not when he’s so close to cutting loose from this group of strays.

 

_Your future does not include babysitting a rag tag group of idiots_ , Blackrazor hums in his mind. The blade has made itself perfectly clear on the matter. _Get what I need and get out_.

 

“Can you fill my flask up at the bar, Caleb?” Nott asks. Caleb nods, and Fjord watches the two of them walk away towards the tall barkeep. Beau clears her throat to his right, and when Fjord glances over at her she’s skewering him with a smug expression.

 

“You two should just have sex,” she tells him frankly.

 

Fjord lifts his mug of ale to his lips in silence. He should’ve known he wouldn’t be the only one who noticed the tension between himself and Caleb, but he’d hoped no one would give enough of a rat’s ass to say something about it. 

 

“I think he’s probably up for it,” Beau adds, nodding over at Caleb. He’s saying something to the barkeep, a handsome man with a well-trimmed beard. Caleb smiles as he takes back the flask, slipping the barkeep a couple silvers, but Fjord thinks the smile he gives Nott as they walk away is nicer. 

 

“Beau, I say this with affection in my heart for you,” Fjord says through gritted teeth, forcing a smile, “but kindly shut up.”

 

_She senses your desire for the man_. _It’s obvious_.

 

Fjord silently wills Blackrazor to also shut up.

 

“She’s really not good at that,” Jester points out. “Punching, yes. Being quiet, only if Yasha says so.” Jester lowers her voice into a stage whisper. “ _That’s because she likes Yasha._ ”

 

Beau rolls her eyes. “You’re just wasting time, is how I see it.”

 

Mollymauk appraises the two of them before fixing Fjord with a long stare. “Some people have to tiptoe around each other. Just means they know they’re fragile. Break easy.” He makes a cracking sound in the back of his mouth before clapping Fjord on the shoulder. “Don’t blame you. He seems like the type to shatter on contact.”

 

He glances over at Caleb, before shooting Fjord a smirk, one eyebrow raised., “Just so you know, some of us aren’t so... limited.” And then, before Fjord can think of a response, Molly spreads his tarot deck over an empty table, loudly boasting about his psychic abilities. A few curious onlookers make their way towards his grift.

 

Fjord sinks lower in his seat and concentrates quietly on his ale.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Permanent access to the Soltrice Atheneum is only granted to fully-fledged members. Fjord’s pendant had been acquired with a particularly charming question and pity, so getting Caleb in was going to require some delicate maneuvering. 

 

“He's just a simple country man. He can’t even _read_ the books,” Fjord lies, gesturing to Caleb, who puts on his most supplicant face. “So you see, he’s really just here to help me carry selections to my carrel.”

 

The librarian guarding the entrance narrows her eyes suspiciously at Caleb. “You were only given one pendant pass to the Atheneum for a reason,” she starts, but Fjord interrupts her as politely as he can.

 

“We won’t be any trouble,” Fjord promises, pressing five gold into her hand. “I swear.”

 

Narrowing her eyes at Fjord and then Caleb, the librarian grumbles, “you better not be,” finally closing her fingers over the gold and waving them through.

 

Caleb squeezes Fjord’s arm, and Fjord swallows around the warm feeling in his chest that touch elicits. “Well done,” Caleb praises, his voice a whisper, and Fjord can only nod as the two cross over the threshold into the library’s entrance.

 

Fjord’s first impression is that the Atheneum is huge. Wide columns of marble erupt from the shining tiled floor, tracing all the way to the arched roof that hangs at least two hundred feet above them. Stained glass windows decorate the ceiling, colored light streaming in from every pane. But, most impressively, every wall Fjord and Caleb pass is stacked to the brim with books of every size and shape. Fjord scans quickly over the titles as they walk— _Reach of Illumination: Volume Twelve, Phantomsong, Arcius’s Tips on Maintaining Concentration—_ and realizes that there are more books to read in this library than you’d have time to sift through in a lifetime.

 

“Thank you for this,” Caleb sighs, looking out across the Atheneum’s interior. He beams up at Fjord, and the light through the stained glass windows seems to dance amongst the fiery strands of his hair. “Gods, it’s beautiful isn’t it?”

 

“Yeah,” Fjord nods, eyes darting briefly to the crook of Caleb’s smile. “It is.”

 

_Focus, Fjord._

 

Fjord tries to smooth away the snarl that beckons naturally at Blackrazor’s words. He’s doing his damn best here.

 

Scholars from the Academy circle around the atrium at will, all wearing robes that are far finer than anything Fjord has ever owned. Fjord doesn’t much care. He’s not here to fit in or become some kind of fancy scholar. Fjord has a mission.

 

His assigned carrel is hidden away in the stacks. It takes asking for directions several times before a librarian finally guides them to the lower archives, where the majority of students spend their days studying. Caleb looks around the place like he’s just wandered onto some kind of heavenly plane of existence.

 

The carrel itself has a small wooden bench in it, long enough for two people to sit together. A desk made of the same dark wood hangs over the bench, spots of ink and scratches from quill nibs scattered across the flat surface. Clearly this carrel was well-used before Fjord ever laid claim to it.

 

“Okay, so—the game is this,” Caleb starts in a whisper as Fjord settles his shoulder against the wall of his carrel. Fjord can’t help but smile—he’s not sure he’s ever seen Caleb this giddy before. “Fifteen minutes. Whoever comes back with the most interesting book wins.”

 

Fjord raises an eyebrow at Caleb. “Didn’t exactly peg you as playful.”

 

“Well,” Caleb says, slow and thoughtful. “You don’t know me very well yet.” 

 

“Thing is, Caleb,” and Fjord puts a casual hand on Caleb’s arm, “I’m trying.” An old, obvious trick: the more you shift attention away from yourself and back onto the mark, the smoother the con goes. It helps, though, that Fjord is actually rather curious.

 

“I know you are,” Caleb says, and he lets Fjord’s hand rest on him for a long moment before he shrugs it off. “You’re being very patient with me.”

 

“ _Quiet_ ,” an adjacent carrel user hisses.

 

“Okay. Impress me,” Fjord whispers, leaning a bit towards Caleb. It seems like an innocuous game, and Caleb’s got a good eye for rare books. Even if Fjord doesn’t find anything special, Caleb likely will. “Best book wins. _Go_.”

 

Fjord and Caleb skid off in opposite directions. Fjord finds himself jogging through the archives, reading titles as fast as he can. “ _Rekir’s_ _Battletome For the Cautious, Natural Medicinal Properties: Volume Seven—_ ” Fjord mutters the words under his breath, scanning from book to book in quick succession.

 

Giving up on this aisle, Fjord sprints toward the back of the archives and nearly runs smack into an ornate looking metal door that someone is trying to shut. Fjord grasps the edge of the door instinctually, the metal cool beneath his long fingers.

 

“Are you quite alright?” a small voice whispers. “People trip on the door to the arcana section all the time.” Fjord looks down to find a well-dressed gnome with a large key standing in the doorway.

 

“I just wanted to catch the door before it closed,” Fjord lies, thinking fast. This is definitely a part of the Atheneum Fjord doesn’t have permission to browse, but if it’s the arcana section…  Fjord feels a thrum in his chest, Blackrazor goading him to continue onwards. Adrenaline spikes through his veins. “Make as little noise as possible, you know.” His words are confident enough that the gnome just smiles at him without a single question more. 

 

It’s dark beyond the door, likely to keep the parchment as pristine as possible. For Fjord’s eyes, though, it’s not difficult to see. He picks through a couple of scrolls before settling on one book in particular with a thick leather binding.

 

Caleb, looking incredibly smug, is already sitting in Fjord’s carrel when he gets back. “You’re late,” Caleb murmurs.

 

“Only a minute or two.” Fjord grins at him. “Let’s see what you found.”

 

Fjord hides his book behind his back while Caleb hands over his pick. “ _Eldritch Swordplay For the Adept_ ,” Fjord reads aloud. He leans past Caleb’s shoulder to place the book on the desk and thumb it open. “Woah,” he breathes. Intricate illustrations dance across the pages like a living play, figures twisting and weaving in an intricate spiral of blades. Fjord flips a few chapters in and spies the word _accursed spector_ before slamming the book shut.

 

_That may be very useful_ , Blackrazor praises in the back of Fjord’s mind.

 

“I knew it from the start,” Caleb says, his voice similarly smug in Fjord’s ear. He doesn’t say the word _warlock_ , but a shiver runs down Fjord’s back regardless. Maybe Caleb does have him pegged. Maybe Fjord underestimated him.

 

Fjord hums in appreciation before dropping his pick in Caleb’s lap. There’s no title on the cover, but the leather is worn and bound by a belt that Caleb unwraps carefully. Caleb flicks through the first few pages of the book, which are blank, and then pauses as the text begins.

 

“This—this is a powerful spellbook,” Caleb says softly. “They’re not supposed to keep these in open selection— _where_ did you get this—” Caleb cuts himself off, holding the book to his chest and cradling it tightly. “ _Fjord_.”

 

“I win,” Fjord says, mouth curving with a smirk, but the words come out fond rather than teasing.

 

Caleb’s eyes are bright with delight. “You know what this means, don’t you? Anything written here I can learn. And the things that are too advanced I can copy down for later. Gods, Fjord! I could kiss you.” Caleb only seems to realize what he’s said after the words are out of his mouth, and the apples of his cheeks flush dark red in the low light of the archives.

 

Caleb’s been caught on his hook. All Fjord has to do is pull.

 

Fjord slowly leans back against the wall of his carrel, crossing his arms over his chest, even as part of him wants to push closer to Caleb. “I’m not real opposed.”

 

“ _Quiet_ ,” the same disembodied voice calls out. “Some people are trying to _read_.”

 

Caleb’s flush continues down his neck before he finally turns back to the spellbook. He pats the bench next to him. “If you sit here like a good boy and let me read, there may be something in it for you.”

 

Fjord raises his eyebrows. Something about the way Caleb says _good boy_ makes his heart beat a little strange. “You drive a real hard bargain there,” he says softly before sitting. After a moment, the hooks a finger in Caleb’s sleeve, giving it a slight tug. “I was always gonna let you read it.” That had been the whole damn point of sneaking him inside the Atheneum. Well—part of the point.

 

Caleb already has his own spell book out, scribbling away, but his focused expression falters for a moment into a small smile.

 

Fjord looks over Caleb’s shoulder, trying to make sense of the words and how they become the strange magic Caleb casts, but it’s no use. For Fjord, magic isn’t something taken from the world but something given for a price. Fjord tries his best not to think about that price very often. 

 

The library is warm and dark, and after the first hour of silent study, grogginess sets in. Caleb mumbles under his breath, and the sound reminds Fjord of the low rumble of the ocean. Crossing his arms, he leans down on the desk and tucks his head into the crook of his elbow. Sitting here in the library with Caleb is the first time in a long while that Fjord doesn’t feel the weight of his responsibilities. He’s not making sure Beau doesn’t fight the whole inn, or stopping Jester from using her duplicate to terrorize the city folk, or preventing Nott from stealing something too valuable to go unnoticed. He knows he should be studying, but somehow this moment of quiet peace feels just as steadying as hours of practicing with Blackrazer in his hand. He watches Caleb practice a few hand motions with his diamond casting crystal floating in the palm of his hand until his lids are too heavy to stay open, and then Fjord is asleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Fjord comes to consciousness to the sensation of thick fingers running through his hair. It’s a pleasant feeling, and for a moment, Fjord lets himself lean into the touch. It’s soothing and gentle. Fjord can’t remember the last time he was truly caressed.

  
“Hey,” Caleb murmurs. Fjord cracks open one eye to see Caleb looking at him with a blissed out expression on his face. “I finished my reading.”

 

Caleb withdraws his hand.

 

“Was it good?” Fjord asks lamely, sitting up in a slow, lumbering motion. His mind feels heavy, and he tries to shake himself a little more awake.

 

Caleb smiles, a different smile than Fjord’s used to, his pupils blown wide. Fjord tilts his head a little as Caleb leans closer. “Yeah,” Caleb nods, his voice soft to the ear. “It was good.”

 

“Learn anything useful?” Fjord asks, matching Caleb’s quiet.

 

“A few things, actually,” Caleb says delicately, running a thumb across Fjord’s bicep.

 

“CAN YOU PLEASE BE QUIET?” their carrel neighbor, seemingly at his wit’s end, nearly shouts.

 

Caleb rolls his eyes in the person’s direction, but he’s looking at Fjord when he says, “Oh, we can be quiet, alright.”

 

Fjord watches as Caleb holds his casting diamond aloft, spins it against the surface of his palm, and then casts his reach wide. A _whoosh_ of magic spreads around Caleb and Fjord, encompassing the entire carrel. Fjord goes to ask what spell Caleb used, but no sound leaves his lips. In complete silence, Caleb rips a small piece off a sheet of paper from the scraps pile on the desk and scrawls out messily, _It’s a silence spell._ Fjord reads over Caleb’s shoulder as he writes. _As long as I keep concentration, it will stay quiet for ten minutes_.

 

Fjord immediately reaches out to Blackrazor with his mind. Silence. Shock floods through him. It feels like being set free—like a string has been cut, and now Fjord is floating in the ether alone for the first time in a very long while.

 

Fjord opens his hand for the quill. He writes in curt, neat lines that contrast with Caleb’s fast but lazy penmanship: _What do you want to do?_

 

It’s an open question, and Fjord isn’t sure how Caleb will answer. The tension thrumming between the two of them for weeks now seems obvious to Fjord—obvious enough that their companions noticed too—but Caleb is a cautious man. Fjord passes Caleb the quill back, letting his touch linger for a moment longer than necessary.

 

Caleb puts the quill down. His hands are shaking a little, and Fjord assumes it’s due to the spell’s difficulty. Fjord reaches out before he can think better of it and grabs Caleb’s ink-stained fingers to steady him. Caleb looks up from their entwined fingers at Fjord, his expression simply _inscrutable_. Finally, slowly, deliberately, Caleb lifts their joined hands to his lips. Caleb breaks his intense gaze to glance down at the rough skin across Fjord’s scarred knuckles. Fjord knows how he got every scar, a visual history of his mistakes. Caleb presses his lips against each mark like he can erase them with a kiss. It makes Fjord’s stomach twist—he’s not the kind of person who deserves this gentleness.

 

Caleb pauses, his breath warm against Fjord’s knuckles, clearly playing a game of trust—like putting his neck to a knife’s edge to see how sharp the blade is. It’s blindingly obvious that if Fjord isn’t interested, he could knock Caleb’s lights out. Something in Caleb’s eyes seems to almost expect it. Carefully, Fjord shifts his hand to run his thumb over Caleb’s bottom lip and nods.

 

Caleb doesn’t need further encouragement, squirming to the floor between Fjord’s splayed legs. Most of his body tucks under the desk of the carrel: if anyone passes by, they’d have to look close to see anything. Fjord, however, is keenly aware of the space Caleb’s body takes up, the way Caleb’s shoulders press against his thighs. He thinks, perhaps, that he’s never been more aware of anything in his life. Caleb unbuckles Fjord’s leathers with suddenly steady hands, and the fact that Caleb seems so sure about this makes Fjord burn inside. 

 

Fjord is large, and past lovers he’s taken have met him with a combination of disbelief and incredulity. He’s already half hard when Caleb lowers Fjord’s pants, and the look on his face simply reads as impressed. Fjord watches Caleb mouth something to himself before taking Fjord in his hand. When Caleb licks across the head of his cock, Fjord sees stars.

 

It’s been a long time since Fjord has been touched like this. Ever since he took up Blackrazor, it’s been easier to keep people at a distance. Fjord tries to tell himself that’s the reason he reacts so strongly to Caleb’s touch, but even in his own mind the argument sounds weak. Caleb coughs silently, and Fjord winces. Slipping Fjord out from between his lips, Caleb looks up at him and raises an eyebrow, pointing to his temple.

 

_Concentration_ , he mouths at Fjord. His lips are slick and red from use, and Fjord’s distracted by their shine until Caleb smacks his thigh. He nods in understanding—if Caleb gets distracted, they’ll lose the spell. They both need to be careful. Caleb lays a precautionary forearm low across Fjord’s hips before dipping his head down to take Fjord into his mouth once more.

 

Fjord groans, Caleb’s spell erasing everything but the reverberation of his own vocal cords in his chest. Not only does Caleb know _exactly_ what he’s doing, but it feels especially good to be defiling the Atheneum after the Academy had been such asses. Fjord turns his head to the right and looks down the archive hall. There’s not even a damn door on this carrel. It’s empty as far as he can tell, but the idea that it might not be makes Fjord’s skin burn hotter.

 

As Caleb takes him deeper, Fjord grips his thighs tight enough to draw blood. A primal part of him wants to shove Caleb’s head down further, but Fjord knows from experience that’s not necessarily enjoyable. If that’s something Caleb wants in the future, he’ll have to ask. They’re already crossing enough lines today. Instead, Fjord gently runs his hands through Caleb’s hair, over and over, his nails softly scratching against Caleb’s scalp. It’s an echo of how Fjord woke up in the carrel, and Caleb leans into the touch, eyelids fluttering.

 

When Fjord is close, he grips Caleb’s shoulder tightly in warning. Caleb looks up at Fjord through his lashes, something mischievous and a little proud in his expression when he doesn’t pull away. Fjord’s head slams back against the wall of the carrel as pleasure rockets through him, Caleb just barely managing to hold down his hips as Fjord comes in his mouth. It’s not the best display of restraint Fjord has ever shown. Caleb swallows him down, licking his lips afterwards, and Fjord thinks, hopeless and a little pathetic, that he never had a chance.

 

“Come here,” Fjord says, but his words are lost to the spell. The expression on his face isn’t, and Caleb climbs into Fjord’s lap, scrambling up from his knees to straddle him. Fjord threads his hand into Caleb’s hair and brings his head down for a kiss. For a moment Caleb seems surprised before sighing into his embrace, but Fjord has never much minded the taste of himself.

 

_Provoke. Consume._ His patron’s wish is Fjord’s command.

 

Fjord snarls into Caleb’s mouth, and it’s less a kiss and more of a claim. Caleb presses himself closer, hips rolling in search of friction Fjord is happy to provide. He palms at Caleb’s cock through his pants while he kisses his way down Caleb’s jawline towards his neck. Caleb huffs against Fjord’s neck, hot and wet, and Fjord feels as Caleb’s silenced words reverberate against his ear. Fjord slips an exploratory hand beneath Caleb’s shorts and he suddenly hears a quiet, “ _Oh, fuck_.” 

 

Fjord stills as Caleb jerks in his grasp. “It only lasts ten minutes,” Caleb hisses. Fjord doesn’t think that much time has actually passed, but it doesn’t seem like the right time to point that out. 

 

Slowly, he puts one hand over Caleb’s mouth. “Okay?” he asks as quietly as he can manage over the loud beating of his heart between his ears.

 

Caleb nods, and Fjord slips a thumb between Caleb’s lips. “Okay,” Fjord repeats, but this time it’s not a question.

 

Eyes wide, Caleb nods again. Fjord feels as Caleb licks against his finger tentatively. Fjord’s cock twitches in helpless exhaustion at the tease. There’s no way he’s coming again, but he can still enjoy Caleb under his control.

 

“Come on,” Fjord mutters beneath his breath. “Before our neighbor gets curious.” Caleb nods helplessly against Fjord’s neck, wrapping his arms around Fjord to find purchase in his hair. Caleb tugs on Fjord’s hair at a particularly rough jerk of Fjord’s hands, and Fjord has to stifle his own groan. Well-played, wizard.

 

Caleb only makes the slightest noise as he comes, a small gasp pressed close to Fjord’s cheek. He’s certain that, had the silence spell not deafened his own sounds, the entire Atheneum would have come to check their carrel while Caleb was blowing him. Caleb muffles another whine against the skin of Fjord’s neck and Fjord strokes him through it. Finally, Caleb pulls away, sinking down onto the bench next to Fjord. Fjord almost laughs—they both look a mess—before tucking himself away and buckling his leathers once more.

 

Caleb is still in a daze when a haughty looking half-elf with a pointed nose stomps into the hall outside Fjord’s carrel. “You two,” he stammers, bright red, “are asking for a demerit. The stacks are meant for _quiet study_.”

 

Fjord looks at Caleb, who looks like Fjord feels: on the verge of laughter. Caleb turns away and covers his mouth to stifle a giggle. “We really are,” Fjord agrees once the student has stormed away.

 

Fjord leaves the Atheneum with a stolen book and Caleb tucked under his arm and wonders, as they walk back to the inn, about the definition of _theft_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Nice to see you’re capable of taking advice,” Beau praises as Caleb skirts off to find Nott. She nods at Caleb’s retreating form. “Staking a claim?”

 

Fjord shrugs his shoulders. The answer is yes, but Beau doesn’t need to know that.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Blackrazor has encouraged Fjord to keep his nose buried in _Eldritch Swordplay For the Adept_ while Caleb snoozes next to him. The sword has given up on Fjord’s time while Caleb is awake, and Fjord isn’t certain if that’s because it doesn’t mind the dalliance or if it knows Fjord wouldn’t stop even for an order.

 

“Accursed spector,” Fjord mutters, tracing a finger across the words at the top of the page. A moving image of a shadowy, humanoid form skirts across the margins of the page. “That’s new.”

 

_Haven’t you ever wanted to keep someone?_ Blackrazor is sleek and tantalizing in the back of his mind.

 

Fjord trails a hand up and down Caleb’s spine. He thinks he knows the feeling.

 

_People always leave. With this power, they leave on our terms_.

 

Caleb rustles under Fjord’s touch. His freckled back arches against Fjord’s palm like a cat.

 

_You like him. He can be yours, for a time, completely. Do anything you say. Anything you want_.

 

Fjord knows there’s a catch. He’s not a fool—he knows when he’s being played. But it’s a little unnerving to hear the darkest parts of his desire spoken back to him a voice that’s not his own.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The exam does not go well.

 

“You’re not exactly what we’re looking for,” Keeper Verena says smoothly after Fjord’s display of eldritch magics. “Perhaps you’ll find someone else in a better position to teach you.”

 

Fjord wants to shout back at the examiners, _you’re not exactly what I’m looking for either_. Instead, he bites his tongue and thanks them kindly for their time.

 

It’s only later, when he runs into Keeper Verena in the streets of Rexxentrum, that Fjord strikes. They’re alone in a crowd of thousands, and Verena trusts him enough to walk with him apart from the crowd of cityfolk. The shadows are an easy cover for what he has to do.

 

“You’re taking the rejection very well, Fjord,” Keeper Verena compliments as Fjord quietly summons his hexblade.

 

“I am,” Fjord confirms.

 

_Consume._

 

The blade comes down easily. It always cuts flesh like a hot knife through butter, and today is no exception.

 

Fjord’s first accursed spector wears horn-rimmed glasses and reminds him of elitism.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Fjord slides the pendant across the table towards Molly.

 

“Can you really duplicate it?” he asks them.

 

Molly grabs the necklace and deftly threads the chain along their fingers. “So now my ideas are good, eh?”

 

“Your ideas are real good, Molly,” Fjord soothes. “It’s just about timing, is all.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“If we do this—” Caleb is panting against Fjord, pawing at Fjord’s shirt to drag it up over his head, “if we _do this_ , you can’t just leave.” Caleb grabs Fjord around the neck and brings him in close to kiss, open-mouthed and wanting. Caleb pulls back when he notices that Fjord is a little startled at this admission. “I know you’ve thought about it. But I can’t take that.”

 

Fjord sits down on the bed. Caleb follows, tucking himself against Fjord’s side.

 

“I spent a lot of time before you came along trying not to die. I don’t think I’ll survive much longer if you cut us loose.” Caleb threads his fingers into Fjord’s grasp, pressing their palms together. “So don’t leave us, okay?”

 

Blackrazor’s words from a few days ago echo in Fjord’s mind: _Your future does not include babysitting a rag tag group of idiots._

 

Caleb clears his throat and adds in quiet tone, “Don’t leave _me_.”

 

Fjord doesn’t make promises much. In fact, he’s only ever made one promise he intended to keep. A pledge in exchange for power was a deal Fjord was willing to take. But this, with Caleb, has no guarantees. If and when the secret of Fjord’s power surfaces, how certain is Fjord that Caleb will accept him, warts and all?

 

Not very. 

 

“If I asked you to leave, would you come with me?” Fjord is good at deflecting, and answering a question with a question is a tactic he’s often used. Though perhaps this question is more revealing than he’d like to admit.

 

Caleb hums to himself. “What about Nott?”

 

Fjord doesn’t mind the goblin. She’s useful enough and can be taught to be more careful. “She could come.”

 

Biting on his fingernails, Caleb takes a long moment of quiet. Fjord doesn’t necessarily anticipate the group breaking up soon, but it would be good to know who Fjord needs to collect when things inevitably go south. And they will, Fjord is certain of that, especially when someone like him is in the mix.

 

“Maybe,” Caleb finally replies.

 

“Okay,” Fjord nods, and he presses Caleb back into the mattress. ‘Maybe’ isn’t ‘yes,’ but Fjord’s not really sure what answer he wanted to hear. For now, ‘maybe’ is enough.

 

“Maybe I’m just using you to stay alive,” Caleb says as Fjord kisses down his chest.

 

Fjord thinks quietly that’s a bad idea. “Maybe I’m using you too.”

 

Caleb looks at him for a long moment, like he’s trying to find an answer to an unspoken question. Finally, he simply replies, “Well, as long as we’re agreed.”


End file.
